


Sandman

by BournieBNA



Category: Naruto
Genre: Art, Ballet, Crimes & Criminals, Drugs, F/M, HARUNO SAKURA SERVER’S JANUARY 2021 GIFT EXCHANGE, Multi, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29287062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BournieBNA/pseuds/BournieBNA
Summary: He was a sand artist whose muses were loss and madness. She was a contemporary ballerina who lived on love and dream. Little did he know that she lied. And little did she know that he created sweet fantasies. After all, they called him Sandman.
Relationships: Gaara/Haruno Sakura
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Sandman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> This is a humble gift for dear SafelyCapricious on the occasion of HARUNO SAKURA SERVER’S JANUARY 2021 GIFT EXCHANGE. I hope you will like it!  
> This is also my first published fic so, congratulations to me XD  
> *P/S: Although I chose "Teen and Up Audiences" for Rating, I think it might actually be "Mature" for some due to underworld theme and drug use (and maybe future potential sexual content?). So if you guys feel uncomfortable with drugs and twisted artistry, then you know this fic may not be for you.

In the serene, dim stage light, his hands gracefully danced amidst the floating sand, delicate strokes forming on the illuminated glass table. An empty-eyed boy, with no brows and a faint smile, slowly appeaeds on the projection screen, holding a human heart. A kind-looking woman took shape to the left of the boy, her left hand also cosseting the heart. And a man, an empty-eyed one, emerged to the right of him, standing there lifelessly. Around the three figures, a desert materialised. Then, under the virtuoso hands of the artist, it bloomed, vigorously. The audience rudely applauded his prowess.

They called him Gaara, the Sandman.

_Such a foolish joke._

The young but great artist decided to disregard the disrespect and continued with his masterpiece. His swift and flexible fingers elegantly scorched the luminous glass, like flickering flames on a canvas, leaving intricate patterns.

Colour of the music transformed, complementarily with the sudden, furious change of scene: the smile on the boy’s face faltered, his eyes exuded madness, the woman and man were then just mesh of sand, and the desert flowers became blood splatters.

The boy then assumed the form of a fantastic creature, wearing the heart he had been holding on its chest. Waves of sand raged on, clashing with the calm ticking of the grandfather clock in the far corner of the room, and when the virtual sandstorm eventually subsided, everything was smeared – all by the very hands of the artist.

Then, in the tranquility of Rêverie, he drew a spider lily – a singular, big blossom in the center of his glass canvas. Each petal, each stamen, was handled with grace and care and mastery beyond compare.

His performance ended in standing ovation and his indifferent leaving.

_An unnecessary tumult._

A glass of L’ H’eraud cognac should be able to ease his mind. And so, he stolidly took a seat, on a golden stool, by the bar counter. The bartender, a red-haired, short man, took notice of his arrival, and unspeakingly slided a cognac snifter towards the taciturn sand artist, knowing his customer well.

_Rogue._

The artist took a sip of his acrid drink, his face remaining as motionless as a statue, and resumed to assess his surroundings.

It was really an impressive, luxurious hall, even more grandiose than last year’s venue. And although he hated to admit it, a part of Gaara actually looked forward to the annual Artist Ceremony, where every most eminent artist was invited to perform and showcase their expertise, and to just simply celebrate the artistic professions. The host of the event, Sasori, was a renowned puppeteer himself – an illustrous artist who always seeked perfection, and whose real identity was also the biggest mystery in the art community.

Not to him, though.

Despite his despise for socialising, attending the Ceremony was somewhat therapeutic for Gaara. It was the only time Gaara felt like he had the chance to truly express himself without consideration for censorship. He did not expect people to be able to fully comprehend his art – nobody would. But at least, none of them could dictate what he felt and what he drew. Because at the end of the day, they were all individualists, with weird aesthetic conceptions and socially questionable moralities. In fact, the invitees chosen by Sasori must have those two attributes as his own artistic perspectives were controversial, at the very least. Gaara was grateful for that.

There was a sweet fragrance violating his sense of smell, and the hall went dark, leaving only one light pillar on the grand stage where a slim woman was posing. A ballet was coming up, most probably a contemporary play, judging by the attire she was wearing and the setting. It was only her and a mirror; a black, sleeveless lyrical dress hugging her curves a bit too affectionately.

And her velvety, let-loose pastel pink hair.

Gaara indulged in the pungent taste of his cognac, his heart thumping and his head feeling light. The tipsiness had kicked in, and he had to loosen up the scarf around his neck.

His attention went back to the prospective performer. She looked young, possibly the same age as him, and possessed an exotic beauty. Nevertheless, he had never seen her in his community. She was not a famous dancer – he had never seen her performing at any prestigious competitions or in any significant ballets. She definitely did not look like one with disputable moral standards – her features held such unfathomable purity that he refused to believe she could be one of his kind.

_So why is she here tonight?_

Gaara looked for the red-haired bartender, partly to ask for a second order. But he was nowhere to be found.

The music started, piquing the sand artist’s curiosity. It was Spiegel im Spiegel, meaning “Mirror in Mirror” – a very intriguing choice of piece for contemporary ballet. But the ballerina was what truly captivated the audience.

She was the epitome of grace and vigour. Every movement, every facial expression, was handled with poise and passion that burnt – like a fire. She was undoubtedly a proficient dancer, a potential superstar even, but what amazed Gaara the most was her ability to intepret the music and convey her emotions through her moves. Her choreography felt so sophisticated, her stage presence was seasoned, and her interpretation was just fresh and original. And somehow, Gaara felt like her innocent artistry complemented his twisted one.

Spiegel im Spiegel meant Mirror in Mirror, so her movements were intentionally the reflection of one another. But there was also a story in her performance – perspectives she wanted to share, thoughts she wanted to project. And they truly reached Gaara.

She was a girl living on love and dream.

That was her message, pure and simple. She believed in karma, and that what you thought would get reflected in your life, in your deeds. And by extension, if you thought of your dream as your identity, it might as well come true.

She was just that naïve, vivacious girl.

…

He was lying in the middle of a green field, under a cherry blossom tree, basking in the warm sunlight and contemplating the white cloudy sky. It was peaceful, blissfully so, and Gaara loved the smell of fresh grass lingering in the air. Delicate petals was floating in the gently breeze, one landing softly on his cracked lips, and a harp was playing mellifluously.

…

He woke up to the rude banging at the door, with a throbbing head.

“Gaara it’s me, Kankuro. We’re late to the delivery. Get your package ready!”

“No need to shout…”, Gaara grumbled, and drowsily reached for the small powder package on the far-right corner of table he was napping on, a table full of jars with colourful sand and powder, and the spot where he previously slept on had a white piece of fabric, with some specks of pastel pink dust.

“New formula?”, Kankuro suddenly spoke up from behind Gaara, peeking at the mortar containing some kind of finely crushed pink sand on the table.

_The kid was self-experimenting his “sleeping pills” again…_

After all, they called him Sandman.

“Angelic Spring”, Gaara randomly answered, shoving past a half-impressed Kankuro to get to the door.

“Who is our customer, again?”, asked the young artist-by-day, sleep-deprived-teenager-by-night. Whoever this client was must have been a heavy addict. Or they just wanted to trade all of their assets for a temporary, illusory dream life – a fantasy no more no less.

_Escapism._

The older guy reached into his tattered pant pocket to take out a folded piece of paper, and smirked at the surprising familiarity.

“Haruno Sakura.”

**Author's Note:**

> I might expand more on this AU. This one-shot might become a short or long fic (depending on how motivated I will be lol) because I love this AU (more characters will be involved). Also, if I have time, I might elaborate on the choreography (and maybe rewrite some lines lol).  
> Anyway, awkward me really appreciate all comments and kudos so thank you in advance. Hope you guys find this fic a decent read *insert hearts*.


End file.
